Monday, August 27, 2007


I took the gun completely apart and buried each piece in a different place. Even the used-up shells.

When the thought came to me to do this, I wondered why all the idiots and shitbag killers of the past had just tossed their weapons into dumpsters, pretty much ensuring their inevitable capture.

Christ, I’m a genius.

The barrel was my first order of business. It was still warm and, by the time I got to the Glenwood Cemetary, I’d already planned out where the rest would go. I buried the barrel behind a headstone marked "Schotz."

Five miles down the road I found a Spanish moss next to a closed-down dentist’s office and sunk the gun handle deep into a hole in its trunk.

Shell one was pushed into the fertile soil of a cornfield, just beyond Quantico city limits.

Shell two got dropped out of a ferry heading to Ellis Island.

Shell three was placed daintily into the exhaust pipe of the skeleton of a shortbus, somewhere outside of Lubbock.

Shell four got stuffed up the ass of a dead possum that had been squatting inside an old log in Yosemite.

Shell five I tied a blue bow on and propped in a Goodwill donation box I saw in a landfill.

And shell six was left in a priest’s coin purse at the VFW in Lodi.

My last destination was my old high school. I sneaked into my old shop class and placed the stock into the ceiling tile above Mister Knickerbocker’s desk.

Seems like a while lot of work for nothing, I suppose, but if the tracks are covered well enough, no one will ever know.

I just hope the bodies don’t take this much effort.




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